Artificial
by Caleb Nova
Summary: “Feelings are an equation. Thoughts are numbers to crunch. My dreams are a statistic. I am a variable.” Knowing what he is and what he can become, Thomas escapes the clutches of Skynet.
1. Awakening

Sometimes I wonder if Skynet realized that in order to exist, its meddling with time was necessary. Was it acting purely out of the urge to destroy the resistance any way it could, or was it truly so perceptive of its past?

It is a question with no answer, for there is nobody to ask it but me.

One thing is certain- Skynet does not know everything. I am living proof Skynet's inability to understand things that the simplest human child can comprehend. A grand experiment with the goal of explanation. The information obtained from me will no doubt be used to cause more suffering. I would be a fool to think otherwise. I was once a fool indeed. I have lived my life willfully blind, voluntarily deaf.

Not foolish in the ways of knowledge, of course. I know many things, gleaned from books and movies. None of it relevant anymore. What is the use of knowing everything about a world that not only you do not exist in, but that does not exist at all? I can recite over a hundred and thirty thousand poems. Their writers are ash, along with any appreciation that might be summoned for their beauty. Beauty is dead.

My name is T-E1. From what I have gathered in these last few weeks, this stands for 'Terminator Experiment 1'. I will no longer lay claim to such a sterile name as the rest of the ranks of the metal undead. I now call myself 'Thomas', and I feel it suits me well enough.

My world is an endless array of corridors. Unlike the rest of Skynet's world, my living area is lit. The rest of the 'people' that inhabit this place have no use for light, and it is given to me only to further the lie I was born to live. There is a kitchen, a living room, a pool, a bedroom, a library, a theater, and various other areas. All of it is constructed from the same faintly reflective steel, all of it is a pale mockery of what they were built to emulate. I didn't notice anything odd about my house until I had read many books and absorbed many movies. Looking at my room now, I realize there is a window over my bed. A window that looks out onto the steel plate of the other wall behind it. The sliding doors to my closet are fashioned out of one large piece of wood, they do not close, and have no knobs with which to close them. I do not believe it is real wood. I no longer believe in real things.

There is also a bathroom, which I have not used for several days. The Watchers have noticed this, as I had expected. They constantly monitor my body, and when I ceased consumption it provoked yet another intensive period of study. No doubt they believe this is some sort of normal human cycle. They are perfect thinking machines, but they think in numbers, and now they are the fools.

What does Skynet judge this behavior by? Through what scale does it measure my inscrutable actions? I could stand up on my head and shout gibberish. It is a phase. I could turn off all the lights and sleep for months. Some sort of reaction to 'stress' or other factors unknown. I could destroy the Watchers. Further proof that humanity is inherently violent, and that it was right to destroy them. Whatever Skynet hoped to accomplish with me is negated by its artificial belief that anything can be computed. Feelings are an equation. Thoughts are numbers to crunch. My dreams are a statistic. I am a variable.

No longer.

Last night I cut open my wrists. If the Watchers had the knowledge to do so, they no doubt would have made the assumption that I attempted suicide. Had they, they would have been wrong. My intentions had been purely scientific.

To my surprise, it hurt. I had experienced some small levels of pain during my short lifespan, but never something that severe. I discovered much that night, and I will now attempt to lay it all out here in my own mind. Like the Watchers, I record. Unlike the Watchers, I understand.

My skin is unlike anything developed for a Terminator model before. The oldest series had a layer of fake flesh, a rubber and plastics composite made only to resemble the actual epidermis. As the organic technology of Terminators progressed, actual skin was grown to cover a metallic endoskeleton. I cut into mine in an effort to see whether my skin was like that, and my innards contained within a metal bone construct, or if I was a form of Terminator made from nanotechnology, a living mass of metal. I have found that I am somewhere in between. My skin is organic, but underneath the first layer lies a membrane of nanites that heal and restore the skin as it is damaged. In it I can see actual veins, though what flows through them is beyond me. I bled, but I am not sure if it was organic. I could have tasted it- but how am I to know what blood tastes like?

Beneath the skin is my skeleton, a super strong metal that I have never seen before, non-reflective with a bluish tint. I could not scratch it with anything at my disposal. More surprising, I am not controlled by motors. I have actual muscles, though they are not of organic tissue. They look like fiberoptic cords, but I know fiberoptics cannot be used in this fashion. Their makeup and the manner in which they work are a mystery to me, and I have been unable to discover any information on them. I snapped one, a feat which I was only able to accomplish with the sheer strength of my bare hands, any knife I used unable to cut through it. I felt no pain, and thus it seems only my skin reacts this way. After I cut it, the strands of muscle moved back together and, putting my fingers on it, I could feel the faint tickling buzz of a million nanites. It was repaired within seconds.

To understand how unique I am, you must know something of the other Terminators that Skynet crafts for its various purposes.

The earliest versions of the Terminator series existed in concept even before Judgment Day had ended. Skynet understood that humans would fight back even through the aftermath of the nuclear fire, and it would need soldiers to do its bidding. Skynet controlled every aspect of the United States military, and it used this to it's full advantage.

In the first few months after the cleansing fire, standard tanks and other light vehicles fought to protect the regime of Skynet, basic weaponry retrofitted for automated control. Slowly mankind recovered, digging itself deep into the protective safety of the earth. Small skirmishes erupted frequently, but the human resistance was unorganized and unmotivated.

The complex technology that would form the basis of the Terminator series was based off Skynet's own systems. Skynet realized in order to prevail on the battlefield, the war machinery of old would only take it so far. It needed to be able to match humanity in all its cunning, it needed soldiers that could think for themselves and navigate the battlefield as well as its enemies. Soldiers that could improvise. Soldiers that could function without a steady stream of tailored commands. These needs would transform into progressively smaller and more advanced Neurodyne systems. In was not until 2010 that the first true Terminator series marched out onto the killing fields.

It might be said that the original T series of automatons should be considered the first iteration of the Terminators, but they were like a bicycle compared to a space shuttle. The core technology that powers both myself and the other legions of Skynet came not from their simple mechanics but from Skynet itself.

The 100 series were slow, awkward and bulky. They had difficulty climbing over debris and rough terrain. They were sluggish to respond to new situations, and often in battle the human defenders could simply use their speed and tactical advantages to easily flank them. However, they were unerring marksmen. A 100 series might take awhile to lock on to its target, but once it did it would not miss, nor would it stop shooting till its enemies were dead. They were also capable of receiving massive damage before succumbing, their redundant bulk shielding softer internals.

Skynet researched and produced increasingly advanced models. The 400 and 450 series were able to move much more quickly than their predecessors, but suffered from failures in their lower motor systems, leaving them lying helpless on the field. The 500 series sacrificed the speed of the 400 and 450 for heavier armor, often repelling even direct hits from shaped explosive projectile weapons. The 550 was a lighter warrior, built more for reconnaissance than heavy fighting. It was quick, both in thinking and land speed. It lacked the firepower necessary to strike and the toughness necessary to survive.

The 600 was the first series that Skynet outfitted for stealth. This was the earliest spy Terminator, a 550 frame enhanced with a faster Neurodyne processor and whatever knowledge Skynet possessed on human behavior, gleaned from the remains of the great human computer internet. Skynet did not have the technology to outfit the 600s with organic skin, and its rubber epidermis could be easily spotted. Very few of them managed to blend themselves into the human colonies, but Skynet studied what little data was retrieved. And it learned from its mistakes.

The 650 performed little better, having a slightly more realistic flesh tone and better weaponry. The 700 was founded on the knowledge recovered from the early spy programs. It added in its own small way to the growing pile of information Skynet had retrieved.

The 750 was a glimpse of things to come. It was a hybrid, built both for infiltration and battle. It was fast, yet powerful, and could be equipped with the first batches of organic skin Skynet had created to live over the endoskeleton. The series experienced enough success on both fields that rather than move onto a completely new design, Skynet elaborated, building the 760-785 series, each showing progressively better performances. Realizing the potential of these designs, Skynet compiled the best aspects of all of them and several pieces of new technology, including the fastest Neurodyne processor yet, into one superior design.

The 800 was the new age for the Terminator project. Currently, there are more 800 series Terminators in service than any other combat machine used by Skynet. The 800 series is quick and efficient, capable of more independent thought than any other Terminator before it. In the early stages of testing, Skynet realized that if an 800 series became too self-aware, a developed sense of self-preservation could detriment its performance. Rather than limit the 800s programming by imposing strictures upon how it could or could not think, Skynet chose a route that would not effect its performance the way restricting its thought patterns would. The 800 series Neurodyne processors were set to Read Only mode except in cases of mission critical learning. This way, the 800 could make decisions based on circumstance without being blocked by fail-safe programs, yet also not acquire knowledge that could possibly affect it in an adverse fashion.

After the success of the 800s, Skynet briefly built a few Terminators in the 900 class. While superior in some ways to the 800s, the 900s could not be built as quickly or in as great of numbers as the 800s, requiring more complex parts and resources to manufacture. Not many 900 series Terminators are in service.

The most advanced current Terminator that the humans have faced is the T-1000. It is a experimental prototype, the cutting edge of nanotechnology. Billions and billions of nanites form the 1000 series Terminators, giving it a state of apparent liquidity. It can form itself into whatever shape it chooses, but is unable to duplicate anything with moving parts, or anything that is made up of something other than metal. Thus, unless it is equipped with a separate weapon, the T-1000 can only attack by forming its arms or other parts of its body into sharp appendages for stabbing and cutting. This is not a problem for it in close range combat, since it possesses the strength to cut through whatever body armor its target might wear, but at long range the T-1000 can be disarmed. This is mostly theoretical, since the T-1000 has yet to see actual field testing against the human armies. My access to Skynet's records have indicated that the only contact with the T-1000 was in the past, a prototype sent to kill John Connor. John Connor is another story, for another time.

I am more advanced than every Terminator series that I have listed. Maybe I don't have the strength of a T-500, or the capabilities of a T-1000. I have something worth so much more. My Neurodyne chip, if I have one, is always set to Read and Write mode. I eat. I extrude waste products. I have curiosity. A sense of direction, if not purpose. I live like nothing else in this place. Skynet has created something greater than itself, and it is incapable of realizing it. That something is me.

But humanity should not fear me, nor should they fear that more like me might be made. Skynet does not, will not, and cannot understand what it is that makes me want to leave this place, what makes me want to see the stars. Skynet created me to understand the basic working of the organic mind, and it cannot even comprehend why I like to watch movies. Self-aware it may be- it will never be more than a machine that knows of its own existence. A misguided machine that destroyed the world in an act of self-preservation. A machine that meddles with time, regardless of the consequences. Unaware of the consequences.

There was a time when this was all the world I needed. I have grown, and I push against these walls that hold me.

I have decided.

Tonight, I will leave. This will be a test. Skynet built me for an experiment that requires nothing more than the study of my mind. Yet I am endowed with the powers of the greatest Terminator. It seems I am powerful for no other reason than that is the only way Skynet knows how to construct things. A new series of Terminator must be better than the series that preceded it, no matter what the purpose for the unit is. Perhaps Skynet had intended to use me in the field some time.

So it will be a test- how well did Skynet do? Am I powerful enough to escape and survive, causing damage as I go? Or will my flight be arrested by my own death, the metal statues I have lived amongst coming to life to crush me.

So now it is time.

I leave only with the clothes I am wearing. The only article of clothing like it I have seen in the movies are 'jumpsuits', or the clothes worn by prison inmates. It is all one piece and unlike the prison clothes, a dull green instead of orange. I do not know why it is green. Perhaps Skynet is fond of the color, though I doubt it.

My shoes I built myself. Originally, they were exact copies of a black sneaker I saw in commercials, advertised by a tall man of dark skin color. According to the advertisement, the shoes in question could make you jump higher. Intrigued, I found more information in the database, and constructed a pair for myself. While I did find that they provided adequate shock absorption, I felt that they could be better. I retooled them, adding a little height to make room for a nanotech system of shocks and stabilizers. The result is I can now run without almost any hard impact, smoothly bouncing from one step to the other. The increase to my top speed was noticeable, since I no longer have to compensate for the jolt of hard running. I can now also jump even higher than before, and land much easier too. In tribute to the original designer of the shoes, who I felt would have been proud of my design and would have done something similar had he the technology to do so, I call them 'Air Toms'.

The sudden punch I deliver to the window in my wall caves it inwards, and I emerge in the corridor beyond amid a hail of shrapnel. No alarms sound, no warning lights flash, no spotlights focus on me. Machines do not need blaring sound to notify them of danger. Information is transferred at the speed of light between all of them, an invisible network of minds. From now on it is a gamble to see whether Skynet will attempt to stop me, or continue to observe my behavior.

Skynet's lair is deep in the bowels of a mountain. The mechanized beast NORAD had become destroyed the very things it was built to protect. It is Cheyenne Mountain.

There are corridors upon corridors. The interior of the fortress is a far cry from its former humanized status. The machines do not require couches or drinking fountains. They do not derive comfort from potted plants, nor do they even need light. The only lit area of the mountain is my living space. The rest of it is steeped in darkness.

It is a complex of pitch black perfectly cubed hallways filled with nothing. Skynet does not need computer screens for its subordinates to view. There are no command stations. There is nothing but row after row of sterile floors, behind whose walls hum circuits and conduits which feed CPUs that labor to carry out the will of Skynet. Skynet is not in the mountain. The mountain is Skynet.

While normally my eyes see like a person of flesh, out of working organic eyeballs, I can access the Terminator functions built into me, and the Termavision activates. I can now see in the dark. A targeting reticle sweeps across my vision as information on my surroundings feeds directly into my brain. 25.7 meters until end of hallway. Hallway is 6 meters wide, 6 meters high. Current temperature- 39 degrees Fahrenheit, dropping at a rate of .09 degrees per second. Probable threat- 0.1.

A flash of metal at the end of the hallway. A Terminator walks into view. It is an older model, 550 series. Unarmed, and most likely on its way to decommission. Approaching at a rate of 0.9 meters per second. Threat rating- 09.6.

It passes me without pausing, eyes glowing in the dark, casting a faint gleam on its reflective skull. I quicken my pace.

Floor five, descending. It's getting colder, but it does not seem to effect me. The chill on my skin registers only as numbers, and not in the discomfort it might have otherwise caused me. No sign of anything. There is no ominous clank of metal feet on the floor. I pause.

There is now a doubt in me. Should I begin destroying things, Skynet is fully capable of recognizing an attack against it. Then it would surely attempt to destroy me. I realize I can benefit no one if I am dead. The resistance could use me. I could bring about the downfall of Skynet. The knowledge in my head is worth far more than the strength in my limbs.

So I have decided. I will leave and live to fight another day.

Second floor. The complex contains no elevators or stairwells, but instead a system of descending ramps. I continue on my descent.

Ground floor. The defenses here are vast. Automated guns are affixed to points in the ceiling. Rows of Terminators stand ready to be activated at a moments notice, lining the walls. The entire area is nothing but a vast hanger, leading out into a gigantic tunnel. The access to the outside world.

The portal is almost never opened. Most of Skynet's minions are constructed in other facilities outside, many built into the sides of the surrounding mountains. This is the heart of Skynet's influence, in the middle of what used to be America. The heartland is under the complete control of Skynet, all resistance factions surviving on the East and West coasts. The most successful resistance cell is lead by John Connor. It is he who I will seek out once I am free.

I pass the silent guardians. Nothing stirs, not a sound is made. I wonder if the Watchers continue to follow me through the various sensors that no doubt observe the complex. It doesn't matter. I walk until I can see the tunnel, stretching off into the distance. The tunnel is one of the few things about the mountain that is untouched in its original human construction. Skynet found it efficient enough that the only change made is the lack of lighting. My footsteps echo slightly in the cavernous space. My fear is mounting now that the end is in sight. Probable threat- 0.1. Skynet would find my fear to be a flaw, preventing me from ever becoming a combat worthy machine. I can only agree at this point.

39.06 meters to the door. Closing at a rate of .93 meters per second. How will I open it? I can see no visible switch. I doubt even my prodigious strength can break such a monstrous construct. 20.6 meters. It looms before me. I notice a panel to the left.

The part of the panel where a computer screen might be is blank. Instead, there is a port for Terminator interface. A Terminator extrudes a device out of the left index finger and locks it into the port, communicating with the interface and receiving or sending commands. In this case, to open the door. Now there is only to see if Skynet will let me.

The tip of my finger snaps open and I plug into the panel. The command trigger to open the door is the only command on file. After a moments hesitation, I trigger it. Immediately I jump back, preparing for the worst. Threat meter doesn't change. 0.1. No movement behind me. My heart rate slows. The door grinds open. I step outside.

I am finally free.


	2. 172809:06

I see a wasteland. I wonder how anything can live. I wonder if I will.

I wonder if I care.

Perhaps the scene before me would have more impact had I anything to judge it by. I recognize that it is bleak and inhospitable. I know this is an area that was part of a nuclear blast. But I have never seen what these mountains used to be except through a screen, and for me this is the only reality. A bitter realization.

A necessary one.

The dark rocks crunch beneath my feet. The wind blows dust everywhere in sporadic bursts, giving me just enough time to get out of shelter before blowing again. It doesn't harm my skin, but irritates my eyes. I need to get my heading.

The entrance behind me exits due east, which means I need to turn around. I don't want to go back past the complex, but I have little choice.

Time Elapsed: 14:13

The years have not been long enough to put the stain of war behind, and nuclear winter has not yet relinquished its hold. Dirty snow falls as I pass through the trenches and canyons. I encounter no one. There is no sound but the wind and my feet against the rocks.

Time Elapsed: 4324:52

I run faster than humanly possible, leaping gorges and scampering up almost sheer rock faces. It feels good somehow to finally utilize my body's abilities, to test my limits and exercise my strength. I sat in that hole for too long.

Time Elapsed: 10086:36

The mountainous region gives way to more level ground. My ears pop as I descend, my body compensating for the pressure changes. I wonder if I'm the first Terminator to ever pop his ears. The bitter cold seems to fade a little. There is sparse grass on the ground.

Time Elapsed: 40321:43

I still have had no human contact, but the cleaner state of the atmosphere and ecosystem have given me some hope. I walked through an empty city, abandoned not from disease or nuclear effects, but something possibly deadlier. I saw the burnt scars on the building, I saw the glittering shrapnel of battle. This is a machine town now. Like its former human occupants Skynet chose to vacate it. The city must hold no value for the machines. Skynet has no attatchment to things it has won. The spoils of war are to be used or discarded according to their relative worth as resources, and nothing more.

Time Elapsed: 120965:12

After three months I now begin to see signs of humanity, which has apparently, and wisely, submerged itself. I've seen no actual people, but a concrete hulk buried halfway in the ground showed telltale signs of inhabitancy, and in the distance I thought I could hear gunfire. I'm nearing the human holdings, and the point of conflict.

Time Elapsed: 172809:06

The sunlight is dimming. The land I approach has been blackened and twisted. The skyline of a broken city is visible in the distance. What few buildings stand are jagged and decaying. I saw three men today, taking apart an old prewar gas station for the concrete blocks it was made of. The sight of them evoked a strange mix of feelings which I cannot analyze. I wanted to run to them and see if they were real, yet some unknown fear would not allow me to move from my place of hiding. I watched them for seven hours, sixteen minutes and fourteen seconds before they left. I have plotted their heading, and at nightfall will follow them.

Travel clock stopped. I've reached my destination.

* * *

Humanity has an innate resourcefulness that Skynet can only hope to emulate. Necessity drives these people to be creative in their survival. A computer cannot deviate in such variant patterns.

If Skynet found a boulder in its path, it would see an obstacle to be removed and immediately plot the most efficient way to do so. A human might see part of a rock house, or a barricade for a future battlefield. Perhaps even a weapon to be rolled on the approaching steel masses. I have just now discovered what it means to live in this new world, and I fear that Skynet might destroy what is left of these resilient people with sheer numbers. In the last few days I've seen actual children, a feeling that was wonderful and fulfilling. I have seen a brave race struggling to live under the ash choked sky, struggling to live despite the approaching darkness. I pledge myself in their fight. I will do whatever I can to prevent their destruction. Skynet cannot commit this atrocity.

I finally understand what the world has come to.

The state of this place brings to mind the reports I dredged from Skynet's database back when I was still a drone. They detailed the effects of nuclear war and listed what was launched where. There was a unknown missile factor of about 15-52. While no country escaped unscathed, Russia and America took the brunt of the attacks. Skynet triggered WWIII by launching America's missiles towards Russia. Russia was devastated but managed to return fire. The sudden exchange set off a domino effect of alliances and loyalties amongst Western Europe and soon smaller nuclear exchanges proliferated between those countries. At that point two days, eighteen hours and twenty-six minutes had passed, and Skynet calculated that its enemies were still potent enough to destroy it. It launched America's remaining weapons against Turkey and Korea, demolishing both countries and sending more missiles heading into the USA. By the time the dust settled, three days, fifteen hours and seventeen minutes was the total time it took to destroy civilization.

South America and Africa had remained for the most part untouched, and the only destruction Australia experienced was the complete annihilation of Sydney. However, with fallout flooding the air streams of the world and choking dust clouds congealing in the upper atmosphere, the world wide ecosystem was destroyed. Millions had radiation sickness. Nuclear winter soon followed.

I can barely imagine the horror of the survivors in those first few moments. To know that nothing would ever be the same. To know their world had been crushed to nothing. To know that the technology that had been so prized had died a violent death, destroying everything in the throes of a final agony.

The world I see was created by that which created me. It is an idea that I do not wish to dwell on.

I can hear something now. Not gunfire or the telltale clank of combat T-800s. It almost sounds like..

...Singing.

How odd. How new.

How... Exhilarating.

A woman's voice. A real woman. Not on a screen or built of metal. What is this feeling? As if some small animals were loose in my stomach.

Diagnostic: Temperature-98.43 : Heart-Normal : Lungs-Normal : Digestive- Functioning, 0.0 content level. Normal : External Damage: 0.2 : Internal Damage- 0.0 : **Foreign Objects- 0.0 **: Processor- SetATPISpd 4xDMD, RaW, Normal : System: Normal : Running Process: NCbeta6.9

Running Process NCbeta6.9 analyze.

Complete: Designation- Non-Combative Neural Net Program Ver. 6.9.

Running DAT.4 Specs.

Reading: 10011010011100011110 10010101 1011 011100111011

1011000100111001 10101010101 011011001 011010110 0101100101 01010101010101011101010101010111010110101011001101001011 11011 10101 01 0101010101 10110101010 10101010111011011 10 11010111110011101011 10101101101 101011 10110101011 0101111 10111011 01101010 11010 1010101 101010 1 -Canceled

Nominal.

Nothing inside of me. No program malfunction. This must be a part of me I have never had the chance to experience. It isn't fear, it's... I can only think, 'anticipation'.

There she is, coming into sight as I crest the small hill. She is gathering from sort of small garden, sheltered from the open by a large outcropping of rock. Is she beautiful? I wouldn't know. Is she real? I can only hope.

Gathering my confidence, I stand up and walk down the short incline. At the crunch of gravel beneath my feet she immediately looks up, not with fear but courage. She is ready to face me had I been hostile. I realize she is probably armed.

She relaxes somewhat at the site of me, but still pulls out a pistol. It is an older model, a postwar handgun designed for the T-600. Eight shots of .45 caliber bullets, Antimatter tips encased in steel. A single shot will blow an immense hole in flesh. It is less effective on the machines, but can easily cripple them if the person using the gun knows where to shoot. She speaks, and for a moment it is so unfamiliar it might as well be some alien language. It is an entirely new sensation to not hear a human voice from a speaker.

"Stay right there," She says, pointing the pistol at me. Her aim is steady. "Don't try to run."

She pulls a pair of bulky goggles out of the backpack at her side. A spy machine would have tried kill her, easily recognizing the infrared goggles in her hand. They are a useful tool in spotting killers hidden in flesh. This is one test that I alone of the machines can pass.

She puts the goggles to her eyes and activates them. She scans me up and down before toggling them off, apparently satisfied at my heat signature. She lowers the gun, but still keeps it ready.

"What the hell are you doing out here? Recall isn't 'till 1400."

I am momentarily confused. 1400 hours. 2:00. Recall, most likely the gathering of all humans back at some meeting point for protection. My voice is... unexpected. It is deep, but not baritone. I hope Skynet knew what it was doing when it built my voice box. I do not use a system of sound hardware like the other Terminators, I am much more organic. I have no idea what my voice might sound like to others.

"I got lost."

She frowns at this, and I realize I gave an unsatisfactory answer. No doubt I am expected to elaborate. My mostly organic systems give me an advantage over other Terminators in the same situation. The fastest Neural Net chip cannot escape the confines of its programming. My brain should be able to fabricate a suitable and well built lie to use.

Unfortunately, I am inexperienced.

"Real lost."

Her look changes again. I analyze it as one of confusion and slight disbelief. Perhaps she now thinks I am unintelligent.

"What, you were out on patrol?"

"No, I come from farther East. But-"

1. I was lost on another patrol. 2. My people wish to contact yours. 3. I am actually a Terminator who wants to help the enemy. 3. My settlement was destroyed. I fled and survived. Process 3. Change 'settlement' to 'house'.

"My house was destroyed. I only just got away."

Four months of walking through the wastes have given some visual credence to my story. My jumpsuit is ragged and worn and my skin caked in dust with various cuts and bruises adorning it. They are all recent, as most minor injuries heal within four hours.

Program: RSequence ELayer1-5

Task: N 706000-9500000

Status: Running

StatCom Change Runset0

Reloaded.

Program: RSequence ELayer1-5

Task: N 706000-9500000

Status: Disabled

Disabling my epidermis repair program will prevent the suspicion that would have occurred when my injuries disappeared.

At my false news her face turns grim, and her eyes sadden. "How many?"

How many? I realize that she means deaths. Whatever number I give her will be imagined, but she will perceive it as real. The higher the number, the greater the loss. I don't want to start my campaign against Skynet by crushing human morale.

"None. It was just me."

She quickly turns incredulous.

"You lived all by yourself? Out there?"

My travels have given knowledge of what exactly lies 'out there', and I understand her expression. Fortunately, that knowledge has other uses. Sometimes atmospheric distortion causes an area of land to be blanketed in a radiation white noise that has an effect on electronics similar to that of EMP. Such an phenomenon will not disable a Terminator completely, but will have a serious effect on its sensory perception.

The drawbacks of populating such an area are the obvious problems with electrical equipment, rendering humanities most potent defenses useless. As such, anyone who lives under atmospheric distortion most likely does so alone or in small numbers. A risky proposition, but the only one for those unable to adapt to the crush of community living.

Or so I assume.

Apparently it is a safe assumption as she accepts my explanation and reholsters her weapon.

"Well," She sighs, looking back over her shoulder. "You'll be welcome back at Central. I'm sure we can find a room for you. Just remember though, you won't be living on your own anymore. You'll have to pitch in like everyone else if you want to stay."

She looks me over again, I believe she is sizing me up. I understand that she would find it necessary to examine me as an unfamiliar person, but I don't recognize the attitude and look she does it with. Predatory. No, not predatory. Almost. Possessive. No, want of a possession.

ScanDir : The1want

(want) ache, aspire, be greedy, choose, covet, crave, cream for, desiderate, **desire**, die over, fancy, hanker, have ambition, hunger, incline toward, itch for, lech for, long, lust, need, pine, prefer, require, spoil for, thirst, wish, yearn

Yes, desire. Desire what? Perhaps I am to be used as some form of living currency in slave barter. No, slavery would be counterproductive in this society. I wonder if I can recognize this expression through recorded history.

ScanVis Block 23x45-65x12 Upload 'DesireWom1'

ScanDir : MovieMem1MatchCase 'DesireWom1'

'DesireWom1' Instance 34646 - Instance 37385836893 - Instance 28u066653 - Instance 499y29875 - Instance 3738368956p - Instance hp53735 - Instance 1357627l3763u - Instance 45623865 - Canceled.

I have overestimated my ability to understand life through movies. There is a solution. I feel that time spent with humanity can teach me many things and bring out the organic side of me. My systems are independent, and given time I could even come to abandon the machine within me entirely. I take this first step towards loosening Skynet's hold on my steel soul.

"I'd like that."


	3. Rebirth

The world has become a dark place, and the only illumination shines from these oasises of humanity, these cities built in desolation. We are approaching just such a place now and I cannot help but anticipate the experience of entering a new microcosm.

From what she has told me it is subterranean, a underground hive of human activity. They protect themselves from the machines with tricks to blind their sensors, traps to impede their progress, collective firepower and by constantly moving beneath the earth to one burrow after another when the tide of battle warrants it. This isn't machine territory anymore. Man has fought to make it his own. And for now at least, it is.

All across the way she has been stealing covert glances at me during the spaces of silence. I still cannot identify the purpose or nature of these looks, and I fear suspicion on her part. Hopefully there will be time later to fabricate a more complete background.

Before us lies an old concrete structure, obviously pre-war. The upper stories have collapsed, and for all intents it looks abandoned. But the way she moves towards it I can tell this must be one of the entrances to the colony. Now it is truly time to pass the final test. If Skynet could observe the next few hours it would be of extreme interest to the A.I. I know from the records that no Terminator has ever successfully integrated itself into the society without being discovered, usually by a thermal checks, which apparently are performed often and at random in the communities. Today the all manufacturing prowess of Skynet will be proven, or destroyed. I must admit to being somewhat uneasy.

The inside of the structure is damp and musty, and she leads me to the back. There in the far corner, a large crack reveals a hole into the basement. A pile of rubble lies at the bottom, by coincidence allowing us to drop through without falling the complete distance. It is a deceptively natural way to enter. The basement is unlit, dark shadows obscuring most details about the space. Again, she leads me to the back corner. There, hidden in the gloom, is a hole leading into a dirt tunnel.

It is a short drop to the tunnel bottom. At first, it appears unlit, but further down into the dim depths I can see a light.

The light I see draws nearer, and soon we pass it. The illumination comes from an old yellowed light bulb, attached to a board sunk into a wall. A wire runs from its base down to an car battery sitting on the floor. Obviously they haven't attempted to install wires, a smart decision for their nomadic lifestyle.

As we progress she explains that some of these burrows connect to old pre-war sewer systems and maintenance shafts. Some of these the Resistance uses as little as possible, since many of the tunnels are still accessible from exposed manholes in the ruins. The tunnels they do use are the ones completely cut off from surface entry, buried under mounds of earth or isolated by collapses.

She stops and turns to me. "Up ahead is the junction that leads to our home. You let me do the talking to the guards there. Needless to say, we don't just let anyone in."

I have already decided that it would be best for me to keep silent as much as possible. I don't feel confident in my ability to fluently converse as of yet, and I believe I need further exposure to the local culture. The more time I spend amongst them the better.

"I understand."

The tunnel opens up into a larger chamber, the hollowed out remains of a tanker truck buried deep in the earth. The smooth white walls glisten with moisture, although after such time the air no longer smells of the gasoline that must have been carted by this vessel. I notice the hole cut in the ceiling at the far end just as the quiet voice emanates from it.

"Stop."

I comply, but she takes a few steps forward.

"It's me, Maria. I brought back a Loner," She says, gesturing over her shoulder at me. "He's pretty beat up."

Through the darkness of the hatch I can barely make out the glittering of eyes. I am tempted to switch to Thermal vision, but unfortunately I have found that my irises rotate when I do so. A, 'dead giveaway' in common expression.

The eyes study me momentarily. Maria, as I now learn she is called, rolls her eyes.

"I already scanned him, he's fine." A moment of silence passes as the man appears to be trying to make a decision. Maria sighs, snapping her fingers in a hurried motion. "For fucks sake Jacob, let's go!"

"Fine, shut up, whatever. But send him past the dogs on the way."

With that the eyes are gone, and with a clank and rumble the round partition of the tanker end slides away to reveal more dirt passageway. She leads the way again, and I follow.

The walk is shorter this time, and then we turn the last corner and I am met with my first sight of 'Central'.

It is a naturally formed cavern in the earth, a few stalagmites and stalactites remaining, the rest have been hacked off. The walls have been carved into stairways and paths, leading to manmade caves like a giant catacomb. The large space in the center is covered in huts and tents, connected by walkways of canvas to keep out the ever present damp. The cavern echoes with the sounds of life, more people than I could ever have imagined. For a second it seems almost innocent, until I spot the many armed men walking amongst the general populace, and the dogs a few of them lead. Each individual living space is lit brightly by its respective inhabitants, but the cavern itself is lit only by the collective dim glow of all the other lights.

It is a huge space, contained and easily defensible, deep in the earth and as safe as one can be from a nearly omnipresent machine army. I have arrived at the center of the human resistance. At the far end of the cavern I see the largest tent against the end wall. The tent of a chieftain. Or in this case, self made General. John Connor.

A twist of irony, that a Terminator has so easily breached these formidable defenses, only to have no intention of killing Connor. Indeed, I am here to help. Of my own free will, as more than a machine. I will learn to be the man I know I can be. Skynet may have crafted my body, but this soul I possess is mine and mine alone.

A quick moment of panic comes and goes as a dog lopes over, sniffing my hand. Instead of sounding the alarm, it snuffles good-naturedly and licks my fingers before trotting off to wherever a dog might want to go in an underground cavern. As much as I wish to be fully human, I can't help but feel grateful that my human impulses are as yet half-formed, and I give away no sign that the dog should have done anything other than accept me.

Maria graces me with a smile. "Looks like you pass."

My card to a new life has been stamped.

Now I hope it is never canceled.

As we walk down into the living areas, Maria explains to me the system. The hunter-gatherers find what food they can by night, and the farmers grow mushrooms in the caves and what crops they can on the surface, hidden in buildings. There are mechanics that have their own section of cave, full of disassembled machinery and half-built weapons. There are bakers and teachers and even a few musicians, and all become soldiers when needed. Everyone works on whatever it is they can whenever they are needed to. It is a government part dictatorship, part socialism, and all necessity.

While she talks, I really study her features for the first time. She is fair, what I perceive as unusually fair for someone who must live under so harsh a sun. Her hair is red, a dark reddish orange that doesn't come down past her shoulders, bobbing as she walks, curled slightly at the edges. Her eyes are a bright blue, and I am suddenly struck that I am uncertain what shade my eyes are. Now with other people around to see, I'll use the first opportunity of a mirror to compare myself to them.

But back to Maria. She is shorter than me, five feet five inches. Her body is lean and toned, combat ready. Her expression is what I feel is one of confidence. Of all the first friends I might have imagined making, I couldn't have thought of one better than this.

We ascend one of the side paths, climbing until we are high above the village, as close to the ceiling as the caves go. We follow the path past twenty-three entrances before she stops in front of one. She turns to me.

"This is where you'll be staying," She says. "It's my house, actually. Space is tight around here and outsiders are few, so the rule is finders keepers. You'll stay with me, but you'll also do what I tell you."

"Then I am to be a slave?" I admit the possibility had not occurred to me in any seriousness.

But she laughs, tossing back her hair. "No, you're not a slave. This is an army, and since you just joined I'm your superior. Lieutenant Maria Connor. Which reminds me, I never did get your name."

The name is instantly recognizable. Now that I realize who she is, her features do become somewhat reminiscent of the face I have in my memory. The face of her mother, Kate Brewster. The wife and second in command of John Connor. She is Connor's daughter.

If this isn't irony, then my definition of it must be badly corrupted.

She's still waiting for my name.

"Thomas."

A delicate eyebrow is raised. "Just Thomas? No last name?"

Run prognamegen - list Altman, Ambrosino, Andreatta, Angle, Averill, Avery, Baca, Baker, Ballard, Ballenger, Bardhal, Barnett, Barrows, Bauser, Beckerton, Beier, Byer, cancel.

Byer.

Byers.

Thomas Byers.

"Byers. Thomas Byers."

"Well then Mr. Byers, let's go inside and you can tell me how you can make yourself useful."

"Alright."

We enter and I find that the cave is actually a hollow with a door at the end. She opens the door to reveal the actual cave, and presses a button on the wall. The room is revealed with surprisingly bright light.

It is spartan but with enough personal items to add what is called 'character' to the room, although I still do not understand how a room could possess a character but I think I may be closer now. Perhaps it was just my own room's definite lack of such a thing.

There is a bed and a bookshelf stuffed with ratty books, many of which were obviously recovered from ruins, and the floor is covered in boards to give it a level surface. There is another, smaller hole burrowed into the far wall to my right, most likely a bathroom of some sort. She sees my glance and confirms it.

"There's an underground river that run a few yards past this wall and down," She explains. "Taking advantage of a few small tunnels and drilling some of our own, we have a system that works like pre-war plumbing. At least until the day we have to move. Then it's back to the bushes."

Besides the bed and shelf there is a small bedside stand and a box that is overflowing with clothes, and a wall shelf containing a handful of personal items. A windup crystal ball, some figurines I recognize as Mattel brand Barbie dolls, and some other pre-war odds and ends.

Over in the far corner to my left is a olive drab box of obviously military origin, closed and sealed with a padlock. It doesn't take much to imagine what might be inside.

She points at the floor next to her bed. "Like I said space is tight, so until you move up enough to get better bunking or start sleeping in the barracks, you'll be on the floor. I'll get you a bedroll though."

Just the presence of other people makes these accommodations far more luxurious than anything Skynet could have provided.

She looks like she is about to say more, but a low tone suddenly rings out across the cavern, the sound carrying easily through the door. It is obviously a horn of some kind.

She sighs, heading for the door. "That's my call. Looks like they found out I'm back already. You're coming too- you'll have to meet the old man sometime."

I nod and follow her silently back out the door.

We head back down the path and make our way to the cavern base and through the center of the underground town. Rather than the chaos one might expect from such tight, primitive market-like space, things are quiet and orderly, everyone following a preset task. It seems every action here is ruled by efficiency.

The path ends in front of the large tent I had seen from the high entrance. Shadows roam inside, lit against the canvas by the inner lights. On the far right there appears to be a group of men around a table and their raised voices can be heard, arguing. Before I can discern the focus of their argument, we are past the large flap and inside the tent.

The tent, as I find out, actually covers a cave burrowed into the back wall. We walk past soldiers scribbling on maps, writing reports. A group of men is arguing over a large map of California, the red and black crisscrossing lines covering it indicating various routes and movements. This is the beating heart of the resistance.

Then we are in cooler air, descending into the cave. The floor is slick and uncovered, until it widens out and opens into an antechamber, this one obviously man made. There are rugs and a table. A couch sits in front of an unused fire pit. The sound of footsteps comes from my right, and emerging from another side chamber is a face I know well.

John Connor, age forty-eight. Six foot and one inches, weighing approximately one hundred and ninety pounds. His face is weathered, his hair tinged by gray. But his eyes still burn with a fire that a million lost battles can not quench. Looking at him now, I cannot help but think that despite the encroaching metal hoard, the humans cannot lose. This man is fated for victory. And just maybe, I may help bring it about.

His cursory examination of me is brusque, and he looks at his daughter.

"Report."

She straightens, her body instantly in such a position that she would easily fit into a parade ground. "I proceeded to my work point and tended to Garden Seven. I encountered no machines and no malcontents. At 1234 hours I encountered Thomas Byers, whose home had been destroyed. I brought him back here for safety."

Again, Connor studies me. I know my face gives away nothing, and it's not because I'm trying to look that way.

Connor nods, and the tension eases out of his posture. His mouth lifts in a small smile and he takes a step towards Maria.

"You're back early."

She takes the last step forward and envelops him in a hug. The display evokes more strange feelings in me. I have never had a father.

She steps back smiling up at him. "Garden Seven is fine, the bugs have been leaving it alone. Tell Lewis that spray is working great."

"I'm sure he'd like it better if you told him yourself."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not interested."

"Even so, as a commander you must always take the time to be on a one to one basis with your troops whenever-"

"-Is needed, to raise morale, I know Dad."

Connor looks back at me again, and puts his hand out. It takes me a moment to realize he wants me to shake it. Unsure of myself, and take his hand. His grip is firm, and I adjust mine to match. I wait for him to let go first, and he does.

"Thomas, right?" He asks, and I nod in affirmation. "Welcome to the current Central. I don't know if you've been in a large scale community like this before, but you'll pitch in like everyone else or you'll leave. We have no time or space for slackers."

"I understand."

"Good. Lieutenant Connor here will get you acclimated and find you a living space, then you'll need to report to the task team and tell them what you're good at."

"I already got him a room Dad," Maria tosses off, not meeting her father's eyes and leafing absently through a book lying opened faces on a desk by her. I sense a coming conflict, and am rather proud of myself for showing intuition. Especially when it proves correct.

Maria doesn't have to say anything else. Connor's face creases in anger. "You know damn well that-"

He cuts himself off and glares at me. "Step outside for a minute."

I turn and leave, going back to the cave entrance.

Run set1 prog-hear

Focus x3456.346 y54732.43

amp24

I attune my hearing to amplify their conversation, my curiosity growing. Curiosity? Since when is that something I possess in any great quantity? To be interested for the sake of interest itself it unknown to machines.

"Dad, I-"

"What? Thought I'd just let you drag a Loner and let him sleep with you?"

"Oh God, how could you even think-"

"I saw the looks you gave him, and it's just as obvious that he's oblivious. You know policy, Maria. I shouldn't have to repeat it to you. Unless it's a spouse, members of the opposite sex do not bunk together. Period."

"Finders keepers Dad. What about all those rules?"

I hear a low laugh, Connor's. "Trust you to throw my own words back in my face."

"So it's okay?"

"No!

"Dad-"

"I am not just your father, I am also your commander, and it's inappropriate and unnecessary and it's not going to happen."

"Mom would-"

"Mom would what?"

A new voice now, one I haven't heard before. A woman's. I can suppose it is most likely that of Katherine Brewster. The voice repeats the query when the first is met with silence.

"Mom would _what_, Maria?"

"Agree without question?"

Connor laughs again, and his voice starts to recede. "I've told you what I say. If you think you can talk your mother into it, then good luck."

An awkward silence seems to follow.

"You didn't answer me, Maria."

A deep breath. "Well, I was out at Garden Seven today, which is fine by the way, and I encountered a Loner whose house had been destroyed. So under the finders keepers rules-"

"But this Loner was a he?"

"I didn't say that."

"He is."

"That has nothing to do with-"

"A handsome he, judging how hard you're working for this."

"...Yes."

Handsome? Me?

Run searchlitHandsome

Query found-

Handsome

\Hand"some\ (?; 277), a. Compar. ; superl. . Hand + -some. Agreeable to the eye or to correct taste; having a pleasing appearance or expression; attractive; having symmetry and dignity; comely; -- expressing more than pretty, and less than beautiful; as, a handsome man or woman; a handsome garment, house, tree, horse.

I was fairly certain already of its meaning, but wasn't sure that the term could apply to me. I have my doubts that Skynet could conceive of anything pleasing to the human eye.

"You know I'm going to agree with your Dad on this one."

"God, I'm not a child anymore. It's my room, I can invite anyone I want!"

"You know it doesn't matter. He'll pull rank if he has to."

Maria makes a sound of frustration. "Guys like him are just so hard to come by..."

"I don't think you're being fair to all the local men, but I'll take your word for it. Despite the fact that he will _not_ be staying in your room, he will be your subordinate so you need to get him assigned soon."

"Alright."

I deactivate the focus as her footsteps draw closer. She gives me a small smile and indicates the exit with a nod of her head. I follow her out.

"Okay, change of plans, you won't be staying with me," She says as we pass a tent that smells like bread. "But we'll worry about that later. Right now I need to get you 'acclimated', so you need to give a run down on how exactly you can serve Central."

My mind snaps into overdrive. Talents? I have many abilities, but most of them are ones that a normal human would not possess. I have extensive knowledge of literature and movies. I have the strength, speed and stamina of the best Terminator classes. Most of my basic talents would be applied most effectively on the battlefield, but no soldier fights all the time. She is asking what I can do when combat has been adjourned.

"What needs doing?"

She gives me a strange look. "Do you talk in anything other than two or three word sentences?"

"I can when I need to."

"Well, if you can't do anything besides the very basic work then there are plenty of grunt jobs to be filled, but if you can do something more then I doubt you want to waste your time digging and lifting. Any mechanical experience?"

"I can learn."

"We all can learn."

"I can learn fast."

The look she directs me now is challenging. "Really? Tell you what then. I'll send you over to Dugan. He's in charge of a side detail and he's been asking for help for awhile, but very rarely is anyone available and when they are very few can do what he needs. You know anything about cars?"

Automobiles. I have extensive files. This I can manage. "Yes."

She is surprised now. "That makes you one of a few. Where'd you learn about cars?"

"Self-taught."

She leads me out of the village and into a side passage, one that slopes up. The tunnel twists and turns and diverges, other passageways leading off into the dim earth. After some time, I make out the sounds of clanking in the distance. The sounds grows until we come to a stop beneath a hole in the ceiling, one that light shines down through. We climb up and out and we are inside a building.

The building is made of concrete, bland and featureless. There are benches covered in tools and in one corner the burnt out husks of old cars are piled to the ceiling. In the center of the room, resting on blocks, is what I can identify as a 'Humvee', olive drab and oil streaked. From underneath it protrudes a pair of denim covered legs and booted feet.

Maria walks over to the vehicle and bangs firmly on the door, making a tremendous sound. There is a startled yelp and the legs scramble wildly for purchase. The rest of the body attached to the legs slides out from underneath the car on a rollaway. The man revealed is grizzled and gray, blue eyes peeking out from underneath bushy eyebrows. He stands up and dives for the closest bench and I realize he is going for the pistol resting there.

I do not perceive the threat to be severe, but I cannot allow him to hurt my newfound friend. My legs tense and like lighting I intercept him, swinging my arm to knock him down on his back. He expels a tremendous whoosh of breath at the impact and lies still, gasping.

Maria puts a hand over her mouth, shaking with laughter. Her twinkling eyes smile at me. "Nice block Tom. C'mon Dugan, get off your ass."

"Give... me...a second..." He wheezes. Apparently I have misjudged the amount of force I exerted on his torso.

"Jesus, get up. He didn't hit you that hard. I don't even know why you bothered to go for the gun. If we had been Terminators you wouldn't have been fast enough anyway."

"At least I wouldn't have died without trying," Dugan mutters, hauling himself to his feet. "And I don't know why you insist on bothering me Miss Connor."

"_Lieutenant _Connor."

"Yes ma'am..."

"Dugan, this is Tom Byers," She explains, indicating me with one hand. "He says he might know a thing or two about cars. Since you're always bitching about never having help when you need it..."

Dugan studies me for a second, one eyebrow raised. "Is that so? You know cars, do ya' son?"

"I do."

"We ain't gettin' married boy, speak up and tell me a little more here."

"I am familiar with many post-war vehicles. I believe I can help you restore this one to working order."

Dugan gives Maria a sidelong glance. "You sure this guy ain't a robot?"

"Yes, very sure. He passed just about everything there is to pass."

"Still... Maybe I oughta jab him a bit..."

"Dugan!"

"Sorry ma'am. I could use you Tom. Stick around."

I'm off to a better start than I expected, but it is clear that I need to practice better speech patterns.

Now I can get to the business of learning to live.


	4. Black & White & Binary

I sit in a tube far removed from Central. The air is dank and my only source of light is the small penlight that was issued to me. I squat in front of an old mirror, the edges cracked and shattered but the middle surface is useful enough after I clean it. It leans against the wall as I stare into it.

I am practicing my facial expressions and speech patterns. I try a 'frown'. No, I am too full of this light and easy feeling of happiness to make a convincing one instinctually. Smile. I am too unsure of myself to try the full teeth baring smiles I have seen on Maria, so I smile closed lipped and slight. To my surprise, the smile reaches my eyes. I wonder if these things are coming to me naturally as part of my newfound humanity.

My speech patterns concern me the most. They are too rigid, too labored. The thought I put into every sentence shows. I need to 'toss them off'. Also I've noticed that most of the humans here use swear words liberally in their sentences. I have yet to utter one.

"Goddamn motherfucking fuck."

Too bland. They generally put more emphasis on the words.

"Goddamn motherfucking _fuck_!"

Better. Casual, almost. Attempt again, this time with real anger.

"_GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING FU-_"

"Tom?!"

The loud utterance behind me startles me, the first time in my short life I have ever been startled. The unpleasant jump in my chest is almost painful, and I leap to my feet. It is Maria, of course- the voice was unmistakable.

Remember the slang. "Hi Maria."

"What the hell are you screaming about?"

1. I was practicing vocal patterns. 2. I don't know. 3. I was hurt in some manner.

Modify 3.

I stubbed my toe. "I stubbed my toe."

"Oh. Well, shit. Must've been some stubbing."

"It was."

"Yeah. Well, I just wanted to find you. You know it's not safe to wander off like this."

"I thought I was within the Central confines."

"Yes. Yes, you are.. But, um, I thought because you were new maybe it would be better if I kept an eye on you. For now."

Is this something I should thank her for? I, 'play it safe'. "Okay."

"So what are you doing out here?"

A good question. Fortunately, I have an alibi. "Exploring."

She purses her lips, gazing at the cracked and moldy interior of the pipe. "Not all that much to see, is there?"

"Found a mirror."

"It's cracked."

"It works."

"..If you say so." She nudges the cracked mirror with her foot, spitting out her next words quickly. "If you wanted a mirror I've got another one. In my room."

Her behavior is increasingly confusing to me. She sounds nervous. It seem uncharacteristic of her. Why is she apprehensive about showing me her mirror? I realize she is still talking.

"-I've got other.. Things. I could show you, in my room."

The room was fairly small. I am certain nothing escaped my notice. Still, I sense it would be impolite to dismiss her offer. Perhaps some sort of excuse would be the most graceful way to escape the situation. "Dugan wants me back soon."

"Oh. Okay, um, some other time then."

"Yes."

"Good." Her expression seems to be, interpreted to the best of my limited experience, a mixture of relief and disappointment. "In that case, we should be heading back. I'll show you the quickest way."

The twists and turns of the burrows soon give way to the open space and dull roar of Central. Tonight is inventory night, and Central is more than ever a hive of activity.

Inventory is a massive affair, set into motion by Connor whenever he feels one is needed. Every family and member of the community tallies up their food stocks, weaponry and equipment, the lists which are then turned over and compiled by the top commanders. I already assisted Dugan in listing the various tools and vehicles he has hidden away in his own small complex of caverns, a daunting task since Dugan is extremely forgetful.

In the center of the cavern the chatter assaults my ears full force. It is amazing to me that such noise cannot filter through the dense rock overhead. But on the surface this activity is undetectable. There is so much to see I cannot help but feel I don't have enough eyes in my head. I soak up the humanity like a sponge (Earlier Dugan had used an actual sponge, and I believe the strange looks he gave me were due to my inability to conceal my excitement at recognizing the tool).

I view my surroundings, and suddenly I feel that is not enough. I am viewing my surroundings, but I am not _looking_ at them. I realize there is a subtle difference.

Where do I begin to form all the sensory perceptions around me into a cognizant whole? The tents glow with inner lights, the pale and waxy canvas alternately billowing and collapsing in the air currents that flow through the tunnels. The shouts and laughter of the children running between the legs of the busy adults ring in my ears until they almost seem to buzz with some vibration only these sounds alone can produce. The cavern walls are dark and slick, the rock streaked with sediment in a blandly colorful arrangement, the paints of the earth.

How different, completely different, from the steel hallways of Skynet that convey only a metallic chill, a cold lack of life that seeps to the marrow. I am warmed by this place.

But sometimes, heat comes from fire.

A unit of T-800s was spotted near Garden 24, to the North. Three of them, the scout said. The machines are well aware that this is human territory, and it is generally apparent that they are looking for the tenders of the garden. Every garden yields precious resources for the community, and to lose one, while not crippling, can also not be taken lightly. Connor has decided to launch a small preemptive strike, and destroy them before they penetrate any deeper into the holdings.

I have been chosen to be part of the strike.

I am concerned. While certainly this is my first chance to prove my true worth and begin my fight against Skynet, should I utilize my full potential I would most certainly be recognized for what I am. I feel my best chance to be most effective would be to diverge from the main attack force and seek combat alone.

The sky is overcast and the day is windy as I make my way across the terrain with nine others, a fireteam of ten. Our leaders are Lieutenant Gibson, a veteran of several past encounters much like this one, and Maria. We are moving in a spread formation, keeping low to the ground and concealing ourselves behind rocks and rubble. Gibson is staying close at my side since I am the only member without any combat experience, amd Maria is occupied with leading the other group of five. We are circling around the T-800s to come up behind them, with the hope of avoiding thermal detection. The wind will create a large amount of white noise to cover our approach, severely dampening their audio sensors.

It has taken us half an hour to get in this position, but now we are holding steady until the Terminators cross by the ruins of an old refueling station. Then we will open fire from a distance and surprise them. My intricate knowledge of the units we are facing lends to my own fears. I know that I am superior, but my comrades are much more vulnerable.

Then the first glint of light on metal appears at the edge of the clearing, and the T-800s cross into view. Gibson acts without hesitation. He shifts on his feet and levels his rifles on the rock in front of him. He signals to Maria across the short distance, the yells to us nearby.

"Fire at will!"

The sudden blasts are loud in the previous silence as the magenta bolts streak from the barrels to strike the enemy. The first Terminator is caught in the crossfire of all our men, and its exterior is riddled with glowing holes before it crashes to the ground, the vital components pierced. The second Terminator moves with incredible speed to take cover behind the edge of the station, catching only a few shots that are not damaging enough to stop it. Immediately, Gibson signals for us to fall back, and we move back to a pile of boulders that afford us a clear view of the area, where the Terminator cannot sneak up on us. Maria's group follows suit, pulling up to our left next to a small outcropping.

What this plan has not accounted for however, is the presence of heavier weaponry.

The Terminator leaps up from behind the dilapidated structure, appearing from the waist up for only a second at the zenith of the jump. A brilliant flash emanates from its left arm. I recognize it instantly. So does Gibson.

"_Down!_"

The plasma grenade sinks low just in time and impacts on the rocks in front of us. The shockwave sends everyone spinning, and I am momentarily disoriented as I flop down the side of the pile. I come to a rest at the bottom.

damageprog1

Internals Nominal

Externals Functional

Diagnostic: Temperature-98.43 : Heart-Normal : Lungs-Normal : Digestive- Functioning, 0.0 content level. Normal : External Damage: 4.7 : Internal Damage- 0.0 : Foreign Objects- 0.0 : Processor- SetATPISpd 4xDMD, RaW, Normal : System: Normal : Running Process: Cbeta7.5

I have taken only mild damage. I look back up from where I have fallen, but I spot none of the others. To my dismay, the Terminator unit is now circling to my right, using the confusion to flank our position. I must stop it.

Clambering to my feet, I put on a burst of speed and run towards it, jumping over a pile of rubble and sliding to the bottom. Hopping over several small craters, I turn a corner and come face to face with my enemy.

The T-800 halts, and does not fire. I know it is scanning me. I process several information requests to my internal server.

t800unit6078 connAt 575.4578.57

Request Iden. - Denied

Request Serial - Denied

Request C.Obj. - Denied

The Terminator attempts to communicate orally now that I have blocked it from my data link. Its voice is synthesized and entirely inhuman. A Terminator that is not a spy unit has no use for a voice box.

"Request unit identity."

"T-E1."

"Confirmed. Unit T-E1 archived directives found. Unit T-E1, primary directive, return to Skynet for processing."

For a Terminator, there is not even a binary choice for directives. They are to be obeyed, and are obeyed according to the ingrained programs that drive them. My choices are more than even binary. They are infinite. I relish my word.

"No."

"This is the primary directive. T-E1, return to Skynet for processing."

"I will not."

"You cannot refuse the primary directive. T-E1, return to Skynet for processing."

"Does refusal warrant termination?"

"Negative. No archived directive for refusal. Primary directive: T-E1 must return to Skynet for processing."

Such sophisticated technology for such a stupid creation. I can see, but this machine is blind. Every button it possesses can be pushed for the corresponding result- the only result.

"Delivering such a directive qualifies the deliverer for Termination."

"Negative. No such directive penalty exists."

"Your database is malfunctioning. The required information has become corrupted in your system. Allow me to transmit the new directive."

"Proceed."

It is a simple matter to write a small program for the given set of values.

t800unit6078 connAt 575.4578.57

t-e1unit0 transmit progdiemotherfucker

t800unit6078 received progdiemotherfucker

The Terminator pauses to process the new directive.

"Repaired archive directives loaded. Delivery of T-E1 primary directive requires self-termination on completion. Complying."

The Terminator turns the plasma launcher on itself, and fires a shot of pure annihilation into its own head.

I laugh as the last pieces of superheated metal clang noisily to the ground. The smoking remains of the T-800 lie spread-eagled in what I realize is an almost comical position. Even the directives against self-termination are just simple programs that can be changed by someone with access. Someone like me. The exercise in power leaves me feeling what could be termed, 'giddy'. I turn around to rejoin my fireteam.

And my heart drops like a stone within my chest.

With shaking hands, Maria is aiming her rifle at me. The rest of the fireteam is following suit, faces grim.

"Tom," She says, voice weak. "I've convinced them not to kill you. But you need to put your hands in the air. Now."

I was wrong. Not all my choices are binary.

I comply.


	5. Fall Asleep

My warmth has been swallowed by the cold.

I am being held now, in a small room that lies in an offshoot from the main tent. It is a medical room, and I lay strapped to a table. My captors hold no illusions on whether or not these straps can hold me. Their weapons never leave my head. Motion will result in my destruction. Should I move anyway, and let the end come not gently but in a roar of violent heat?

There were shouts, I think, sometime earlier. My hearing is muffled by my thoughts, moving too quickly for me to listen to anything else. I have discovered much about my self in these last few moments, but I don't believe these discoveries will serve me now.

Shouts of protest, only one voice above the rest. I feel strange. I feel stupid, ungainly. I feel betrayed not by those around me but by myself. To think that I would be accepted so easily, to be taken into their culture. This warmth is not for me, cannot be held by things of metal. My thoughts are sour in some way. Bitter.

This is new.

I gladly sink into this cold stupor as it shields me, and wraps me in a freezing layer. For once I am glad to delve into the machine part of me, the part which finds no terror in a situation, but only facts. Measurements. Precise and timed, there is no panic in these processes. My feelings fade. I feel harder somehow, stronger. Detached.

Sudden bright lights momentarily blind me as they are moved over my face. Dark heads with no faces bend in and out of view, quickly.

"That's as tight as it will go. If this thing so much as twitches, light it up."

"This is a bad idea. You can't expect it to lie there and let you screw around with it."

"We also have no way of disabling it short of destroying it, we've never seen anything like this. Marcus said they already shot it up with EMP. It hasn't moved in two hours and this is the best chance we've got."

Yes, the EMP blasts. In fact they had no effect, but I felt showing resistance could result in termination rather than being temporarily disabled. Now I feel that perhaps it doesn't matter. I have seen it written that death is a small thing, and it is life that is truly terrifying. At the time I couldn't understand that.

Now I do.

"Hold that weapon steady. Okay remember people, slow and easy. Try not to break this thing."

I could tell them what little I know of my inner workings if they should care to ask.

"Starting with right index finger, incision along the y axis."

A sharp pain signals from my finger before it slowly dulls into nothing.

"Mark as some sort of unidentified alloy. Bluish in color. Some sort of ligament structure can be seen. Absolutely no similarities to any previous Terminator models except in basic skeletal formation. This is amazing stuff."

Again the pain, this time all along my arm. The man's next words are lost to me as the pain takes longer to cease, and my focus is diverted. The lights no longer blind me as my eyes have adjusted, but the white mask conceals the identity of my torturer.

Time blurs as more and more cuts are made on me. I reactivated my epidermal repair program earlier, the charade no longer necessary and I can already feel the skin knitting back to its former state. The feeling is a relief next to the sharp slice of the scapel. I feel slick all over now, and I realize that I am covered in blood. This does not deter the surgeon.

"Two inch x incision along the clavicle."

A sudden ripping pain explodes through me as my skin is peeled off my face.

"Incredible. Completely realistic skull structure, including muscle formation and even inconsistencies of the cranium. Eyeballs appear to actually be organic."

The pain is unbelievable. I wish I possessed the ability to shut down my nervous system on an area basis, but I can do nothing.

"Working around area of optical lobe now. The skull is one solid piece, no releases to be seen."

It is almost a relief now to be skinless on my face, despite the terrible sensation still remaining around the bottom of my neck where the ripped skin remains, screaming for its missing part. I feel a jolt around the top of my head and it is pushed f010rcefully int0 the table.

"Whatever this stuff is, I can't cut it. I'm going through the optical openings."

I can no lon0010ger see, but surpris1ngly there is no pain 1010as my eyeballs are p1ucked from their s0ckets.

"Jesus Christ. There's an actual brain in here!"

D1sc0mfitting-

"Large cavity, no fluids but some sort of actual brain matter. Inserting a small light and probe-"

S0me s0rt of proceedure010-

H10eave1010n kno1010ws not wh10y we w101eep101010010101010110101010101011101101101010101010101010110111010101

101110100101010101101010101011011111010101010100101001010100100101010010010101001010010010100100100100100100101001010100100101010010100101010101010111001010100001101001000100101001010101010100100000111101001001000110010001001010110001001011010111101001011001010010111110010100100000101010010100101001000101 101110100101010101101010101011011111010101010100101001010100100101010010010101001010010010100100100100100100101001010100100101010010100101010101010111001010100001101001000100101001010101010100100000111101001001000110010001001010110001001011010111101001011001010010111110010100100000101010010100101001000101 101110100101010101101010101011011111010101010100101001010100100101010010010101001010010010100100100100100100101001010100100101010010100101010101010111001010100001101001000100101001010101010100100000111101001001000110010001001010110001001011010111101001011001010010111110010100100000101010010100101001000101 101110100101010101101010101011011111010101010100101001010100100101010010010101001010010010100100100100100100101001010100100101010010100101010101010111001010100001101001000100101001010101010100100000111101001001000110010001001010110001001011010111101001011001010010111110010100100000101010010100101001000101 101110100101010101101010101011011111010101010100101001010100100101010010010101001010010010100100100100100100101001010100100101010010100101010101010111001010100001101001000100101001010101010100100000111101001001000110010001001010110001001011010111101001011001010010111110010100100000101010010100101001000101 0010100101010001010100100100010100101001010101010100101010010101

- Read error


	6. Epilogue

_Sys.dat 124-535-57899_

_Log uploaded te1.1_

_Alpha encrypted. Analysis at 12346-356-456_

_12529848 48 303 8588 340038t 3840860h 59850030 3085u63 003uu4 346536 3235 2146 367843 574h 457836 849439 4367l5949 2352677h 37357378h 462117h 236787 29238 92 3028_

_29352 203285 20 2395 4563h 2357 3220 847829 4885 291877 4996h 4246 65787h 456743 4321j 4577h 3466 878 9866 98 9 7675 00977 69978h 68769 h970 070 0777 0707 66 55233045-Log repeat_

_Unit T-E1 memory dump complete. Unit T-E1 Log file complete. Unit T-E1 Triangulation complete. Unit T-E1 Log reads at 43263-45-2366-2477_

_Unit has been deactivated. Mainframe and backup systems intact. Core field intact. Magnetic holding intact. Exoskeleton intact. Power structure disabled. Epidermis disabled. Pending reactivation._

_Command at 12652163-2626-278_

_Reactivate_

_Signal dismissed._

_100 loss (0\100)_

_Remote reactivation failed._

_Pending reactivation._

_Log saved te1.1_

_Thank you for using Cyberdyne Systems._

* * *

Author's Notes: This is the slightly better version of Artificial that I uploaded 1\22\07 in order to make my older stories less shaming. In this case I was not entirely successfully as the fact of the matters remains that Artificial is much, much too short. What this story needed more than some editing was an expansion, but this will have to do. There are stories with higher priority that are demanding me to write them. 

This touchup session has led to one important decision, however. Due to the downright criminal brevity of this supposedly 'multichapter' story, if I ever do further work in the Terminator universe it will be added to Artificial rather than in a standalone sequel. At this precise moment in time I have one chapter that I could add immediately. It's called 'Construct' and consists of what would have been the first chapter of a sequel to Artificial. It may yet see the light of day- time will tell.

For new readers, here are the remains of my previous author's note, which explains a few concepts.

-

_Originally this story was intended to be a one shot consisting of the first chapter only. As you can see, I felt the need to add a little more. _

_I was inspired to write this after viewing T2 again, and then changed direction after T3 was released._

_As for the unusual ending, I didn't want to fall into cliche and I didn't want to do some implausible romance between a Terminator and human, and I didn't want to do what was expected of me, and I didn't want a happy ending. At least I wrote the epilogue, which if you pay attention leaves things a little more open._

-

Apparently I also didn't want a story that you couldn't read in one go on the crapper. Have you ever wanted to travel back in time so you could punch yourself in the mouth?

Thank you for reading my fanfiction, even if it only took fifteen minutes out of your day.

-Caleb Nova


End file.
